The Adventures of Super-Belle, Part 3 — Do I have what it takes to resist?
So, it goes like this . . .
SO, JUST TO GET US STARTED AGAIN, A LITTLE EXCERPT WHERE I LEFT OFF — OR CLICK HERE FOR THE
we I clean up all the frickin’ mess out of the car. We’ll trade them out later, but for now, just have the get the now somewhat curdling cottage cheesed milk up of my blinking car seat.
And, all of this fun . . . gives me time to think . . . think about how my son will get to sleep the day away, while I . . . get the “golden ticket” to go what I constructively call boredom, polite smiling, nodding, bad coffee and last week’s muffins to attend this grand timeshare presentation.
I don’t know necessarily what I was thinking of at the time, but it could NOT have been good thoughts toward myself. Why I should submit myself to this type of torture for a parking pass ….
But, when I checked in, they assured me that it was going to be a “delightful” (yes, that was the exact word) 90-minute conversation in which they were going to try to convert from the triviality of my mundane existence to the bright sunshine of timeshare ownership.
I am a cheap fricking 90-minute date.
They offered $50 for this 90 minutes of my precious vacation time which I have now given up to spend with them.
So like I said, I have the time to think about the fact that I have agreed to waste 90 minutes of my life on a Monday morning in exchange for a $50 gift card to a restaurant have no interest in eating.
So yes, 7:42 AM this morning I woke up. Dragged myself to the bathroom and inspected my own morning after combination of T-zone pores and smudged mascara, combined with the effervescent enthusiasm that one radiates when one about to attend one of these dynamic timeshare presentations. I can only guess that this ranks right up there with shin splints and going in for confession.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”
“Yes, my girl…”
“I have agreed to a timeshare presentation, and, Uh, here Father, would you like a tic-tac?”
So, yeah, even God is against me by now. Tic-Tac? What am I thinking? I needed a frigging Lifesaver, man.
But, nothing was going to save me now. I have commited, my Monday morning is dedicated to the underworld and whether I will survive the test of the timeshare “closer” … well, only time will tell.
I rinse off my face, put a little FC5 cleanser on my fingertips. Yes. Arbonne . . . Amway’s prettier sister. I know, but it smells so good. Do I even stand a chance at 9:35 this morning – after my 90-minute pummel? I move the cleanser around on my face.
Okay, the oil slick is now gone. I grab a q-tip and swipe my under-eyes with some remover the try to relieve the “raccooned” effect of my liner and lids. Pajama shorts still on. Pink and white stripes. A-line tee shirt, no bra. I throw a sweatshirt over my head, and I am looking almost primitive. I shuffle my hair around a bit. Spray it with my hair spray – appropriately named “Bed Head.” Throw on some lipstick. Yeah, baby, that’s all they get on a 7:56 wake-up call. That’s all they get.
Okay, okay. I’ll brush my teeth. Give me a frigging break, man.
I slip on my flip-flops and slouch out the door. The air smells so nice and clean!
But, there will be NO “nice air smelling” for the next 90-effing-minutes. Stop smelling the Goddamn mountain air. It’s a trick. A ploy to get me to buy one of these god-forsaken $42,000 timeshare weeks.
Stop smelling the Goddamn beautiful air.
I turn to close the door, and on the handle is a “reminder” tag of my appointment with destiny. There is no turning back. They know my room number. They know where my children are. Yes. I have to go, if only for the safety of my children.
I am doomed.
I close the door gently so that I don’t disturb the Goddamn fricking beautiful slumber that everyone ELSE is enjoying.
Crap it all.
I walk on. To Room 103.
I can hear the “Jaws” theme song haunting my head “. . . bom, bahm . . . bom, bahm . . .”
So, this is vacation?
I feel a little light-headed. Maybe I’ll get off if I feign sickness . . . Nah, they are on to THAT one, I am sure. No. I have to save my children . . .
“. . . bom, bahm . . . bom, bahm . . .”
I walk by little yellow flowers dallying in the sunlight. Those little shits are mocking me right now. Laughing at me. Everyday they see the ritual calves like me making their way into this troubled hall.
Those little fricking yellow flowers.
Just shut-up, okay? I am doing the best that I can.
I take a deep breath.
And, there it is . . . the door to my destiny. And, here I stand with three real questions.
1. Will I be strong enough to say, “No?” 2. Will they pummel me (this lone, innocent, crabby-in-the-Goddamn-morning woman) into submission? 3. Will I be able to solve the Middle East Crisis?
Granted, the last question doesn’t apply here, but it IS a real question.
I take the handle of the destiny-ed door, and yes, I take that breath. That breath that will HAVE to get me through this little ordeal. And, yes, I am feeling oddly good about my outcome this morning, despite the fact that my hair looks like shit . . . that I have no make-up on, and the lamest of facts . . . that I still have my pajamas pants on.
But, going commando gives one an odd sense of strength.
Yes, “Breezin’” today, in my little pink and white striped shorts is just what this girl needed.
And, so I walk in with my loose fitting, yummy feeling shorts. I AM READY FOR YOU WORLD. I am ready for what you got, you timeshare devils. Throw me your most convincing lines. Throw me your worst coffee. Throw me to the proverbial timeshare wolves.
I, and my pen that doesn’t have any ink in it are ready for you. I forgot my checkbook in Los Angeles. And, my koo-koo is feeling kinda nice. So, let’s rock and roll!
TO BE CONTINUED….
So, y’all come back, now. Ya’ hear?
Be well Dahhhhlings,
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
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